Chapter 4 - Digging Graves

The library at Blackridge is too quiet. Not the hushed, scholarly quiet you’d expect, but the kind that presses on your eardrums, reminding you that you don’t belong. Even the fluorescent lights hum in disapproval.

I don’t come here for books. I come here because rumors say Blackridge’s archives go back decades—records of students, files, disciplinary notes, even police reports tied to “incidents” that happened on campus. The kind of things most schools would burn. Blackridge hoards.

It takes three wrong turns and one awkward encounter with a librarian who clearly doesn’t want me here before I find it: a door tucked behind rows of leather-bound yearbooks. “Archives” stenciled in peeling gold paint. My heart kicks against my ribs.

I glance over my shoulder. Empty hallway. No cameras, at least none I can see.

The knob is stiff, but it turns.

Inside, the air smells like dust and ink. Shelves sag with old boxes, stacked haphazardly, labels curling at the edges. Some marked by year, others by cryptic initials. A single bulb flickers overhead, throwing shadows across the room.

I close the door behind me and step inside.

The silence feels heavier here, like I’ve stepped into a tomb. And maybe I have.

I start with the shelves marked with the year Noah disappeared. My fingers skim across dusty binders and warped cardboard. Blackridge 20XX. Disciplinary Records. Police Reports.

My chest tightens.

It’s all here.

I pull a box down, coughing as dust swirls. My hands shake as I sift through faded papers. Detention slips. Incident reports about underage drinking, fights in the dorms, plagiarism. Then something else—an official-looking form stamped with the Blackridge crest.

“Student Conduct Violation.”

The name on the line makes my throat close.

Noah Carter.

My brother’s handwriting scrawled on the signature line, neat and practiced from years of debate team notes. I trace it with my finger like it’s proof he existed, like touching the ink could bring him back.

The violation? “Unauthorized possession of restricted documents.”

I skim the details. “Student discovered with sensitive materials belonging to law enforcement. Disciplinary action pending.”

My breath snags. This isn’t just a detention slip. It’s a record of him being caught with something he shouldn’t have had—something that probably belonged to Chief Langston.

I flip faster, papers rustling like whispers. Another file. This one thinner, almost buried at the bottom. My stomach drops when I see the heading: “Incident Report: Missing Student.”

My hands go numb.

Name: Noah Carter.

Status: Presumed runaway.

Notes: Unstable behavior reported by peers. Final sighting near train station.

Lies. All of it.

Noah wasn’t unstable. He wasn’t a runaway. He was careful, methodical, smarter than anyone I knew. He wouldn’t just vanish. And he definitely wouldn’t leave me behind.

The pages blur, tears threatening, but I blink hard until the words sharpen again.

I slip the papers into my bag. Evidence. Proof. Something I can use.

But before I leave, something catches my eye: a folder at the very back of the shelf. No label, just a plain manila cover, tucked too neatly to be random.

I pull it free.

Inside: photographs.

The first one makes my stomach twist. Noah, caught mid-step on campus, papers under his arm. His expression serious, like he knows he’s being watched.

The next photo—him in the library, hunched over a table, stacks of files spread before him.

Then another. And another.

My brother wasn’t paranoid. He was being followed.

I slam the folder shut, heart racing. Whoever kept these photos wanted a record. A warning.

And if I found them this easily, maybe they wanted me to.

The bulb above flickers again, shadows stretching longer across the shelves.

And just like that, I’m back there.

The last night I saw him.

It was raining, one of those summer storms that made the gutters overflow and the power flicker. I remember because Noah hated storms. He always pretended he didn’t, but I could tell by the way he tapped his pencil faster, the way his shoulders stiffened with each crack of thunder.

I was curled up on the couch, half-asleep, when he came downstairs. His backpack was slung over one shoulder, soaked at the edges.

“Going out?” I’d asked, groggy, my voice small against the roar of rain.

He froze, eyes darting to the door, then back to me. His smile was too quick, too forced. “Just study group. Don’t wait up.”

But there was no study group. I knew it, and so did he.

“Mom’ll freak if you’re not back before midnight,” I said, testing him, hoping he’d give me something real.

He hesitated, then crouched in front of me, his hand brushing damp hair from my face. “Aves, you’ve gotta trust me, okay? Just… keep your head down. No matter what you hear.”

I frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He didn’t answer. He just kissed the top of my head like he used to when I was little. “You’re smarter than all of them. Don’t forget that.”

And then he left.

That was the last time I saw him.

By morning, he was gone.

The memory slices through me like glass, dragging me back to the archive room with its dusty shelves and flickering light. My chest aches, the same hollow ache it’s carried ever since.

I shove the folder into my bag, my hands trembling. This is proof. This is everything I’ve been waiting for.

But as I turn toward the door, I freeze.

The knob is moving.

Someone’s trying to come in.